


Restart

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Grotesque descriptions, John has messy hair and clothes headcanon, Lots of angst and suffering, Violent Images
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-07-25
Packaged: 2018-01-21 16:39:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1557071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave trying over and over again to save John from various fates, all involving certain death.<br/>Just a little warm-up thing after ages of not writing anything whatsoever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Don't expect anything spectacular, appart from me using my overly complex vocabulary after months and months of not writing fanfiction aah  
> I'll try to continue it as far as possible, but being the Empress of Unfinished Stuff and exams coming up....... Expect the worst.  
> I wanted to practice angst after all.

As soon as his black trainers made contact with the smooth metallic floor, everything lighted up as it always did.  
Tap.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
The huge gears ticking, their sound echoing over and over until they made furious cacophony. The metallic pieces going up to a missing black ceiling, and equally the floor seemed to be engulfed by emptiness.  
All clock gears ticked together, moving in what seemed erratic harmony.  
It was that kind of harmony that he lacked.  
A harmony in which everything just worked together perfectly.  
Every time he had to come back to that place, he hated it a little more. Not because it was an empty, hot place made entirely of shining metal or because the only sound to be heard was tick, tock, tick, tock.  
It was because, yet again, Dave had somehow managed to fail his task.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
Another useless attempt with the same outcome as always.  
This time, it had been a school shooting, in which he hadn't managed to duck down on time.  
Last time, the ceiling had collapsed and had destroyed his rib cage.  
Another time, a home-made bomb had exploded just as he happened to pass nearby and had destroyed his legs.  
Accidental stabbing by a rusty nail that poked out of a wall in a construction site.  
Burned to death by a household fire.  
Severe food poisoning where he almost threw up his stomach complete with intestines and throat.  
Drowned to death when held in a school toilet by bullies for too long.  
If he tried to make up a new way of dying, John would've probably died already that way.  
If Dave said he was beginning to get tired of seeing his best friend die, he would be lying. Because he just felt empty as fuck. Watching his dark blue eyes fade reminded him of the metal gears he had to see again just after another death.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
Should he just accept fate and let John die? The thought had already seeded in his mind, and it was beginning to infect him to the extent he just watched John's breath become laboured, and then become completely still. He had tried to fight against what was supposed to happen so many times he had lost count. There were probably as many gears in that place as different deaths John had gone through.  
He just sighed. Even though he felt like he had given up long ago, he kept going, restarting, trying to do it right one last time.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
He felt that familiar trouble in breathing. When he stayed for too long in that metallic place, he himself started feeling pain. The same pain that John would've felt when dying. He felt sharp pain in the places the bullets went through, and he felt his trachea close a little. Probably meaning John was asphyxiated when shot and his lungs wouldn't stop bleeding. Dave tried coughing to ease the pain, but it only made it worse. He felt himself struggling to breathe. It was worse than ever before. Usually, it would only be an annoying itch. But this time, it was some motherfucking killer pain.  
Dave felt himself bend forward, gasping and falling onto his knees, clutching his chest tightly, his aviators falling onto the metallic floor with a soft thud. His eyes closed tightly in an attempt to ease the pain by diverting it to other places of his body, and so did his hands when grabbing his red t-shirt with one of those cursed gears printed on it.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
The gears ticked louder, the cacophony becoming worse every goddamned second. He found himself trembling in pain, his body collapsing into itself, tears coming to his eyes. He gasped louder for air. He was silenced by the incessant ticking from the argent-shining metal. His silent cries for help were muted.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
His sight became blurred. Luckily, there was no-one else there to see him with the stupid outfit he had to wear when he entered Clockwork Hell. Being unable to breathe along with that stupid huge cape and bloody stupid red and garnet outfit and the whole stupid situation just made him stupid. He wished he had CIP. That would make things a whole fucking lot easier.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
"I want to restart. Hear me?"  
Tick.  
Tock.  
Tick.  
Clack.

Silence.

The gears just stayed motionless. Dave swore he could hear his heart beat echoing Clockwork Hell.  
The pain diminished. His trachea opened up slowly, allowing foul-smelling oxygen into his lungs.  
He let go of his t-shirt, now wrinkled where he had previously squeezed the fabric. His hands were sweaty, thus the piece of clothing held the shape of his closed fists for a couple of seconds. He picked up his sunglasses from the chrome metal flooring and put them on silently.  
Here we go again.  
The gears made an ill thunk noise, and they started moving in a reversed motion, their pace quickening rhythmically. Dave stood up slowly, using his knee to help himself up. He knew all too well how things were going to be now.  
First, gears in reverse. Then, ticking sounds going insanely fast. Heat. A lot of heat. Then darkness. A little dizziness.  
And then light.  
A fucking blinding flash, every single time he went back in time. Whoever designed the standard procedure for time travelling obviously forgot that some people have fucking eyes and need them to see.  
Dave winced when the blinding flash managed to catch him off guard, and he found himself to be no longer on the chrome flooring, but in his room. The usual pictures hanging from the ceiling, his usual overused turntables, his usual undone bed, the usual black tangled cables all over the floor. Everything left untouched, just how it was when he left home last morning.  
The only unusual thing about the room were the huge dark circles under Dave's eyes. And his ridiculous outfit, of course.  
He quickly proceeded to change, throwing his cape over his head and discarding it to the corner of his room. The faintly drawn muscles on his back flexed and relaxed as he pulled off the two t-shirts that covered his chest (two t-shirts on Clockwork Hell? Whoever thought of all this stuff must've been high or something when thinking of the design: yes, let's make the time traveller die of overheating while wearing ridiculous articles of clothing! Genius). He let them drop on the floor, and quickly picked up his usual slashed record t-shirt. That felt more like home. His red pants hit the wall as he kicked them off, and he put on some simple jeans. It had become just another routine for him. He checked time and date: same as always when he reset the timeline. As usual.  
Everything was back to normal.  
The whole apartment was dead silent, so he didn't even bother sneaking out. He picked up his bag and pulled out his shining aluminium headphones, put them on and zoned out.  
He felt drained, but he still forced himself to move the bag of bones his body was and carry himself to school. That was the only thing he looked forward to when restarting: dragging himself to the bare building to finally see the splash of colour that brought him back to life. It was like a faint candle being lit in a dark room. He walked absent-mindedly, no music playing on his headphones at all. Through them, he could hear the idle chatter of other teens he usually walked along when going to class. The conversation was always the same: last night's TV show, someone's lost pet, or rumours about a breakup. He knew them all off by heart, and he sometimes even mouthed them to himself. The beginnings were always the same, and he wondered where things started to screw up exactly.  
Just when he finally got to the school gates and popped off his headphones, he heard the usual 8am yell coming from the bus stop a couple of metres away.  
"Dave! Good morning!"  
He turned his head slightly to see John running to him, smiling widely. His arm was up in the air and he waved it ecstatically. His school bag jumped and hit him in the back as he ran, and shortly after he was right next to Dave.  
"You look exhausted man! As if you hadn't slept in weeks! Are you OK?"  
Dave just nodded, thankful that his sunglasses conveyed the almost coal black dark circles drooping under his eyes. "Nothing too serious, Egbert. I'll be alright." He wished he could say that with some certainty, and John didn't ask any more questions. Instead, just like every morning, he started babbling about the film he saw last night, and Dave limited himself to inquiring randomly about the plot at given times.

。・°°・・°°・。

Opposed to how kids usually reacted when hearing the bell that indicated the end of the school day, hearing that bell meant imminent doom for Dave. It meant that, from right now, anything could be the trigger for another death. He stood still when the bell rang, and quietly packed as other kids shuffled and laughed loudly, throwing bags against each other, poking pens at others' waists, moaning about homework, insulting each other or making plans for the weekend that was never to come. Dave hung his bag on his bony shoulder and took small steps to get himself outside the classroom, taking care of not getting into other people's way, and made his way out. Just like every afternoon, John was waiting for him at the gates.  
"I've had a really shitty day today, I need to go home and crash." John huffed as he matched walking paces with Dave.  
Crashing as in getting your skull completely smashed in a car accident like what happened fourteen attempts ago?  
"What about going to town?"  
"Sounds cool! I think I have my bus pass somewhere..."  
Not in a bus. The last time both of them had hopped on a bus was the time the bus driver had decided it was a perfect day to drunk drive and long story short, broken shards of glass though John's chest had managed to kill him in five minutes flat.  
"Let's take the subway."  
"The subway? Are you su-?"  
"Yes."  
John's eyebrows flew up on his face, but he didn't ask anything else on the topic.  
The walk to the subway station was fairly short, and both of them bought their tickets while John just chatted about his test next Monday, to which Dave gave his opinion idly. If only he knew he wouldn't probably make it to the next few hours.  
The train arrived only minutes later, screaming in agony as it came to a halt when entering the platform. Dave made sure John didn't get too close to the railways, just in case he got pushed or fell just when the subway came. Dave had to make sure everything was under control at all times, as even the tiniest mistake could bring about a catastrophical chain of reactions. They hopped on the train and took their seats, John sighing and getting comfortable while Dave remained tense. They both shook harshly as the train got into motion, and they heard again the ear-splitting noise of the wheels against the neglected railways.  
"Hey, you know the sounds the train makes whilst going quickly through certain parts of the track? The kind of agonising scream you can hear?" John tried to start conversation, "I like to think those are the screams of the people who have died on these railway tracks."  
"Really? Like haunting ghosts trying to creep people out?"  
"Kinda, but real souls of people! Both from those who committed suicide and from those who accidentally died here from some reason... Listen."  
The train then came into an individual-track tunnel, and just then what sounded like a woman screaming in agonising pain rattled through the whole wagon, the screams becoming louder and louder. Dave became even tenser. Something was telling him the domino effect leading to John's certain death had already begun. The screaming became screeching, and it almost felt like the souls of those who had lost their lives were really trying to make themselves and their suffering heard. The wagon rocked a little too violently, and Dave tightened his grip on a nearby metal bar. His guts crippled in terror. The piercing cries created an unholy symphony.  
And then they faded.  
"See? I told you!"  
Dave's only wish on that moment was to smack John's face shut.  
"They do sound fucking terrifying."  
"They have to be ghosts, obviously! It's the only explanation to the sound!"  
The wagon rocked gently side to side, the rattling becoming more of a background music instead of acoustic shit. The other people in the train wagon remained calm, occupied with their own little things. Nothing was to be heard except the faint reflex movement of John's lungs when breathing. Hearing him breathe helped him remain calm. It reminded him he was alive this second, that he was still there, heart beating and that kind of shit. By the corner of his eye, he checked on him. How his eyelashes would twitch every now and then behind his idiotic glasses, how his hands wouldn't remain completely still, but his thumbs would run over the lines of his palms and the wrinkles of his knuckle, show his t-shirt would synchronise with his breathing tempo, how his leg would stretch and he would play with the rubber tips of his cream-coloured trainers. Dave had a thing for little details, and John was like a gold mine; but instead of gold, the treasure were his involuntary gestures.  
Dave let himself breathe deeply. Could it be that this was going to be the day he saved him? After all, hope was the last thing to be lost by people, right? Maybe his suffering and countless tries to save his best bro resulted in salvation? Or was fate having a little laugh with him before performing the grand finale? Whatever it was, Dave just wanted to know to at least be ready.  
The train was still silent and turning to the left when it started slowing down.  
And by still silent it meant it didn't announce what the next station was yet.  
The train was slowing down in the middle of the tracks, still halfway from its next destination.  
Fucking great. Doom was imminent and they were both stuck in the middle of a dark tunnel. Dave's head bolted up as he felt the train come to a halt. Fuck.  
"Oh man... Did the train just break in the middle of nowhere?"  
"We have to get out of here."  
John felt the urgency of his friend's voice, but remained clueless of the danger, "Shouldn't we just wait until the train powers up again?"  
"This fucking piece of metal probably got stuck in the middle of the railways," he looked outside the plastic window, and identified the other train's railways just crossing over theirs, "we are in the middle of a fucking intersection. When the other train coming from the other way arrives, it won't be able to stop on time and instead will fucking kill us. Fucking hell."  
Dave was already punching the button to open the automatic doors when the situation finally sunk in to John. He bolted up from his seat and tried to open the door too, but it was solidly closed. Dave started kicking the plastic pieces on the door to try and break them, but they wouldn't bulge. John tried to open the emergency windows, but as the doors, they were stuck, probably due to have never been used. People around started to panic and shuffle to the other end of the train, clotting the narrow connections between wagons. Conversations became shouts, and children’s' questions became whimpering and tears as they were dragged away. Adults tried to scurry away if they weren't helping try and find a way out of the train. Maintenance obviously hadn't done well their work, for every possible exit was impossible to open. "This has got to be a joke!", "Is this some kind of hidden camera thing? If so, this is not funny!” could be heard. If only they knew.  
"Dave, this won't move even a millimetre...!” John's voice trembled noticeably.  
"John, run to the back of the train and save your fucking butt. I'll try and open this piece of shit" Dave tried to open the door by charging full strength with his whole body. Nothing.  
"I'm not going anywhere."  
"Did I fucking ask you for your opinion? Run before it's too late."  
"No. I said it already, I’m not-"  
"You fucking asshole, do you even bother listening?!" The other train was coming already: the wheels running full speed caused even more panicked screaming from the people who were still struggling to get away from there. "Don't you hear that?! It's Death laughing as it comes for you!" he couldn’t help but let out a desperate chuckle, stress mining his self-control.  
"What the fuck are you saying?! Have you lost your mind?!" John’s eyes reflected fury, but deep down, there was pure desperation.  
"Just run away, for fuck's sake!!"  
"I said I'm not leaving if you're not coming!!"  
"Fine then." the howling sound of breaks being applied overtook his speech. Dave gave up on trying to get out of the contraption, and instead grabbed John's wrist and pulled him away from there. John resisted and tried to slap his hand away, but he gave up. Dave on turn elbowed people away as far as he could, receiving blasphemous speech back, although he couldn’t really make out what people were saying. The only thing he could hear was the uproar of the wheels trying to be stopped. They wouldn't make it on time, neither them nor the other people around them. Young mothers pulled their babies close and wept silently, waiting for their destiny to come and yank them away from life. He tried to pull John as far away from where the train was to impact as he could, but there was too much of a crowd to move properly. If he was to pull his wrist further, he would probably break it.  
The lights from the coming train shone blindingly. The hollering was drowned. Dave pulled John and held him close, one hand holding his head and the other one positioned just over his spine. John responded by grabbing him tightly.  
And just then, both trains collided.


	2. Chapter 2

It felt like it happened in slow-motion. The other train crashed, sending people flying to the other side of the wagon. Dave still held John close, and felt his feet become completely detached from the ground, along with John’s body pressed to him. He felt his head hit the metal bar opposite and John’s hands hold on to him to the point his nails almost got though clothes and skin. His head throbbed, and he almost felt for sure that he was bleeding. He didn’t hear anything. Yet, he felt the whole metallic box roll to one side and crash against the tunnel’s side. The tunnel wall broke, the windows shattered, the metal wrecked and electric wiring exposed. People were tossed to one side like little bugs in a bratty kid’s shoebox, moving around the small things to make them suffer. Shoes flew everywhere away from their owners, and the force of impact was so strong the other train even penetrated the wagon, its driver propelled to the front window.  
Dave opened his eyes slowly. The emergency lights from the wagon were completely wrecked, hence there was almost complete darkness. He felt the weight of people and potential corpses on himself, and he tried to move enough to be able to stand up, kicking people out of his way as carefully as the situation allowed. His fingers were still tangled in John's hair and-  
John.  
He hadn't moved at all yet. He was still buried into Dave’s t-shirt, fingers curled around the fabric, almost becoming one with him, and his chest didn't feel like it was moving at all. Dave's fingers carefully detached from his back and head, and tried to look at him. His face looked like it was alright, no visible injuries. He examined him closely, and for a second he saw his eyes moving under his eyelids. He was unconscious, but alive. His hands were still holding Dave tightly, and Dave struggled to break free from him. Once he was liberated from Koala John's grip, he started to make his way out of the pile of humans on top of them.  
The view was one that looked like it was from an apocalyptic film. A faint baby cry could be heard from the distance along with the whimpering of some injured person, and almost no movement was to be felt except for an occasional jerking movement from someone trapped down below the pile of corpses. The air was thick with the smell of blood and iron, and the broken cables hanging from the ceiling built up static electricity. The whole wagon had been pushed to the side, the seats that were once on their right now on top of them, dangling loosely with the screws almost detached. When he was finally able to pull himself out, he proceeded to drag John out of the pile, checking his vitals first. His breathing was weak, and his heartbeat felt distant. As people regained consciousness, sound built up, causing the injury on Dave's head to throb. It was slow, but he could feel movement under his feet as people started to move and get out of the conglomeration of legs, arms and wounds. Sharp cries of pain from people with broken limbs or broken souls as they discovered their loved ones were presumably dead could be distinguished amidst the buzzing of broken machinery and wrecked electric motors. He gritted his teeth in grimace. I was a nausea-inducing image.  
As carefully as he could and making sure he took care of his head just in case, Dave pulled John to 'clean' floor. He looked like he was in deep sleep. Good thing he couldn't see what was going on around. The floor was littered with sharp plastic and glass pieces that came from the other train's headlights. Dave then proceeded to kneel down, place John to his side and open his mouth slightly, always with a delicate touch, as if John was a dainty piece of the finest glass. He took his thick glasses off and put them next to him. He needed something to put John’s head on, something soft, like a jacket, hoodie, something. But all clothing was being used, and taking something from a dead body didn’t sound like a good idea.  
Dave heard a sound above him. Something like a rusty swing from a kid’s park moving slowly. Except there weren’t any swings here. He looked up. And just in that second, the seats above them fell, the loose screws unable to hold them in place.  
Fucking useless maintenance.  
The seats happened to land just on top of John, part of the hard plastic structure hitting the side of John’s head, the rest of the piece landing on his remaining anatomy. Dave swore he had heard a loud cracking sound when the plastic and metal landed on his friend’s head, who now laid inert.  
A soundless cry got stuck in this throat, and he bolted to the metal structure and moved it out of the way in one swift movement, making it crash against the opposite wall. Adrenaline and fear made his mind spin like crazy. His skull now had a deep indent, even visible with the thick tufts of hair that covered his scalp. Warm blood seeped out in between the broken pieces of bone, and if you dared to look close enough, even brain matter had been exposed. Dave’s fingers shook furiously as he approached the head wound, and he stained his fingerprints with blood. Thick, garnet blood. He pulled back his hand, blood imploring him to stay there by creating a small, haemoglobin-based thread. But Dave broke away. He played with his friend’s blood with his index, middle finger and thumb, making small circles with the liquid. He finally whisked away the body fluid on his jeans.  
John had stopped breathing. Dave placed his fingers on his neck to check his pulse. Nothing.  
One again, game over.  
Everything around Dave just faded to grey. The corpses disappeared. The agony from strangers, diminished. His ears blocked themselves. His hands became numb and fell to his sides, landing on discarded pieces of glass. Thump. His eyes stung, but he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the body that lay on front of him. He didn’t feel anything: not pain, nor grief, or anger, nothing. It wasn’t like his feelings were so complicated that they couldn’t be described: it was just that he couldn’t feel anything at all. Not even the simplest of emotions. The first time John died, he had cried his eyes and lungs out, screaming and hitting everything that was around. As more attempts were made, he was replaced by a senseless puppet, sealing away what was left of his old being. That way it hurt much less. Who cared if he was completely hollow? He could almost hear Clockwork Hell laughing at him.  
His hands reached out and held John’s face, turning it to face him. The faded blush on his cheeks was being drained already. At least his eyes were close already and he didn’t have to close them by himself; he hated doing that. He ran his thumb along John’s jaw: soft, but had begun to straighten and develop into an adult’s jawline. At least that part of his face hadn’t been damaged by the falling seats. The blood was already clotting, and the wound was one big, sticky, hairy mess. He crossed his legs and positioned John’s head between his knees. For a moment he thought he saw his lips twitch, but he discarded the thought as quickly as it had come. There ain’t going to be any air breathed out of those lips, man, he reminded himself.  
He gave himself five minutes to just stay seated with John, completely silent. The world around them was coming back to life, but they remained motionless. The blond kid pushed up his sunglasses, covering his tell-tale eyes. Security men from the subway company came barging in the wagon and started taking people out of the train, barking orders to each other and aiding those who were severely injured. They seemed to ignore both teen’s presence, and Dave preferred it that way.  
His fingers brushed against his best friend’s forehead as a final goodbye, and left. The moment Dave just disappeared into thin air, everything froze completely, mid-action. Now that this doomed timeline wasn’t of any use, what was the need of continuing it? Why let people know their loved ones were now dead? Why let people suffer with incurable injuries that may have left them in a wheelchair?  
It was similar to killing every person involved in the timeline, but at least they would never know.  
。・°°・・°°・。  
Tap.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
Welcome back to Purgatory, David Strider.  
Dave was thankful that he didn’t have to perform some kind of shitty magical trick to be able to come back to Clockwork Hell. Not only would it be pointless, but most of the times he went back to Clockwork Hell he was physical and emotionally weary. Luckily, he just had to walk away: that meant he gave up on this timeline. Thus, Clockwork Hell welcomed him back.  
Once again, he stood on the chrome metal flooring and he felt a dull headache. There was still blood staining his hair from the would he was given when hitting that metal bar, but now the mirrored pain from John's broken skull started to blur his vision. It wasn't like Dave hadn't had headaches before, but this one was proving to be the worst of his life. He clasped the side of his head. Clockwork Hell was probably pissed off with him; it usually took a couple of minutes before pain showed up.  
"What do you want from me? Why is it getting worse every time I come back to this purgatory?" He raised his voice, as if to address the gears watching him, "What is it you are trying to punish me for? For trying to save my best friend?!"  
Tick.  
Tock.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
"Answer me, Goddammit!!"  
Tick.  
Tock.  
Why was he even fighting with giant chunks of iron? The lack of rest was starting to rot his mind. He let out an ironic snort. He knew he was becoming more and more unstable with every tick of the whole machinery. Whatever the reasons were, there had to be an explanation. He was too tired to think straight, but he knew there had to be something. He threw himself to the shining flooring, face first. He needed rest. Some fucking sleep.  
But not here. The ticking was too loud. It would drive him more insane than he was already.  
He missed throwing himself on bed. He missed having to satisfy basic needs. He missed not being tired.  
He missed being alive.  
"I want to restart."  
He knew he was taking the highway to hell, but he would fix things once he had managed to close his eyes for longer that twenty minutes.

。・°°・・°°・。

He slept through the whole school day. He didn't wake up even when his phone vibrated several times as both his older brother and John called him. He didn't even bother taking off the stupid costume: he just threw himself on the bed, shoes still on, and passed out immediately. The last thing he could care about when he restarted the present timeline was to be caught with what looked like lame cosplay complete with cape and same colour scheme clothes. When his door was knocked and then fisted by his bro as he finally acknowledged he had skipped school, all he could pronounce was a low groan. Steps came and went as Bro did his stuff and finally shut himself in his room. So much for brotherly care.  
Wait. John had called?  
He checked his phone. A couple of missed calls and some texts, most of them asking if he was okay and why he hadn't shown up today. "Sorry dude I had to save my sanity because I had to save you too many times in various parallel timelines." He wished the whole story was at least a credible. He dialled John's number and waited for an answer. It was 2pm: he was probably packing as classes had finished.  
The phone gave signal, and after a couple of seconds a clicking sound hissed through the microphone.  
"Hello? Dave, is that you?"  
"Sup. I hope you didn't miss me too much today."  
"Nah, bro! Is there something wrong with you?"  
"I'm just tired as fuck, nothing too serious, Egbert."  
"Do you want me to bring you something? I have written down all the homework just in case."  
"Bring your sorry butt here. But if you dare bring me homework I will kick you out."  
He heard John's laugh at the other end of the line. "See you later then!" He hung up and the line went dead.  
He had been with him only hours ago, and he was going to see him alive again. He just wished he survived the trip to his house.  
He got off the bed and kicked his shoes off. Both shoes rolled away, jumping as they collided with the thick plastic-enveloped wiring.  
Cape off, jeans on, and ready to rock.  
He loafed around the apartment, kicking absent-mindedly creepy puppets scattered all over the floor, playing about with old, empty juice bottles, his finger tracing the edge, still sticky from the juice, anything to keep his mind busy until John arrived. School was a long walk away from his apartment, not to mention the tiresome flight of stairs up to his door. Dave loved living on the apartment block's top floor, and he was used to walking up and down all the stairs: that kept him fit. But mundane visitors often arrived to his door like sweaty dogs, their tongue sticking out and panting. Natural selection would do its work on weaklings like them.  
Hopefully John wouldn't be Mother Nature's choice today.  
He licked the edge of the bottle. There was still some cloying sweetness on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm having a little trouble writing stuff out... I do have the idea, but I just can't write it out and argh  
> Anything to ask? You can message me on colourfuleden.tumblr.com!<3 thank you for the kudos and comment, they really make my day <3333


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More angst and grotesque descriptions. I also tried to focus more on Dave's thoughts, so please excuse me if this chapter feels too static because of lack of action.  
> I'm trying to write longer chapters, I swear ; _ ;

The doorbell broke the silence inside the house with its shrill noise. Dave looked up from the apple juice bottle, still with a distant taste of apple in his tongue, and dragged himself to open the door. He heard some urgent shuffling feet outside. Dave opened the door with violence, only to find no-one was outside. He peeked out and looked on both sides. It had been ages since some bratty kid had done the stupid doorbell joke on the Strider's household, and as far as he knew, he had managed to scare their shit off by chasing them with a katana covered in fake blood, never to be seen again. Why the fuck would they then risk their lives again for this? Dave stepped outside.  
He felt something slimy and squishy envelop his entire foot, and he couldn't help but mouth a profanity. He looked at his foot: it was now covered in what appeared green slime, lots of green slime, the kind that kids had ages ago that made farting noises when they put their fingers in it. Wasn't that goo out of the market ages ago? He lifted his sock-covered foot, goo coming along with it. That sock was ruined, and now he probably would have to buy more. He hated buying socks. Socks were stupid, overrated and were ruined too easily. Plus, they made it really difficult to strife.  
Fuck socks. Fuck whoever created socks.  
He took both socks off and threw them to the opposite wall, hearing a distant, childish giggle. Whoever had placed that fucking goo on his doorstep was now laughing at him. Fuck whoever that was. He stood outside, obviously remaining oblivious to the carefully placed slime positioned further on. That cold-blooded prankster had everything calculated. He sunk into the slime, barefoot, and froze in that instant. The giggle became a failed attempt to hide laughter. Dave clenched his fists tightly, his knuckles becoming white and his shoulders becoming tenser every second. His lips pursed, and his jaw tightened as his teeth pressed onto each other.  
"Egbert. Come out this fucking instant or I'll snap your fucking neck before you can even say 'slime'."  
John emerged from the shadows with a plastic bag full of little fart goo buckets, smiling.  
"I can't believe not only you stepped on the first pile of slime with socks on, but that _you stepped on the second pile with bare feet_. Don't you ever look to the floor, Dave?"  
"Shut the fuck up and go home, John. I don't want to hear from you anymore." His whole body relaxed except for his still tightened jaw, and he slammed the door shut. Shortly after, John started bashing the door with his fists.  
"Come on Dave, it was just an innocent prank! Don't be mad at me!" John whined in an attempt to find Dave's soft spot on his stone-cold, inaccessible heart.  
"Too late, John. That's what you get when you mess with someone from the Strider household."  
"You were the one who told me to come over!"  
"Changed my mind. Sorry bro. I hate you now."  
"Fuck you too then."  
John was about to turn around and go when he was suddenly met with the headache-inducing smell of fake blood and steel and the point of a curved blade pointing just between his eyes. He couldn't help but jump at the suddenness of the move, but the blade remained at a dangerously short distance from his eyes.  
"I never said you could go. Don't even dare to move a single muscle."  
John's breath remained in a halt, still unable to react with the weapon so close to him. The blade made contact with the plastic his glasses were made of, and it nicked off some of the said plastic. John blinked in hope the blade would disappear.  
"Dave-"  
"Talking involves moving muscles. I said don't move."  
The metallic piece was kept in the same position for a couple of eternal seconds, until, it slowly came down, implying that John could breathe normally again. His tense shoulders relaxed, and he felt his rib cage finally being able to move normally. Dave move his hand, signalling him to come in, thus he proceeded to do so.  
John looked around as he entered the apartment, Dave leaving his katana against the dented wall. John knew his friend's house wasn't the epitome of cleanliness, neither it was of order: you could easily find thousands of dollars’ worth of swords on the kitchen counter, or even unspeakable stuff hanging from the shower head. Still, Dave was somehow comfortable with the chaotic situation, and surprisingly he had learnt to walk barefoot and not hurt or electrocute himself over the years. Though, he still had some pretty stomach-curling scars on the soles of his feet from various unfortunate accidents involving tangled, torn cables. He was one lucky guy who seemed to play with what destiny had for him, pulling the strings of what was to come to his favour. It was as if he knew his day off by heart. John somehow envied the easy-going, "I-couldn't-fucking-care-less-about-anything" moral Dave showed.  
John was pulled out of his daydreaming out of the blue when he was hit on the side of the head with a crisp, which ended up stuck on his hair.  
"Careful not to touch it. It's got my saliva all over it."  
"That's disgusting! Why the fuck did you do that?!" John tried to throw away the crisp, but only resulted in him waving his hands around furiously and the crisp flying into oblivion.  
"You were thinking too much; I feared that your brain would explode from overthinking. And guess who would have to clean later? Me. Because you'd be dead." Dave filled his mouth with crisps and closed his jaw, making the crisps crack loudly enough to resonate around the small room they were in.  
"I was just going through some stuff mentally, that's all." he fished out one of the crisps and popped into his mouth.  
"You were daydreamin'."  
"Was not."  
"Was."  
"Shut up."  
John forced a twist on the conversation and started telling Dave about the school news: exams, homework, new couples, nothing out of the ordinary. Dave just listened, still playing idly with the same apple juice bottle. They both ended up sitting on the kitchen counter, Dave throwing stuff all over the place, the apple juice bottle meeting its destiny as it crashed against the heater. The metallic tank made a dull thunk noise, and the bottle smashed into little glass shards that scattered all over the floor.  
"That was totally ten points."  
"The bottle is now broken, man, that should be penalised."  
"Fuck off."  
"Why didn't you come to class today? You seem fine to me."  
"I'm tired as hell, I already told you."  
"You didn't strain yourself too much, you fell asleep at Maths yesterday."  
"Did I?" That 'yesterday' was weeks ago for Dave; it took embarrassingly long for that to click. "Ah, yeah. Well, numbers weren't always my strength." Whew.  
"You started snoring. I'm surprised you don't remember how the teacher scolded you."  
"It feels like it was ages ago for me, bro, don't be so sharp. I'm sorry, okay, I’m tired, shut up."  
"What is even up with you?" There was a stern tone in John's voice that Dave had never heard before. He sounded like Dad Egbert. Kid was growing up, huh?  
"I already told you a fucking thousand times I feel like shit."  
"You don't feel like the Dave from yesterday."  
Maybe that is because yesterday was really long ago and a lot of time restarting and seeing you dead has happened? "Quit that, will you?" Dave's head was starting to spin slowly, but still the floor felt like it was rocking from side to side, like a small cardboard boat in the middle of a raging tide, defenceless and dependent of the decision the salty, angered god of the sea made. And Dave could bet his life he was going to drown in the merciless sea of chaos.  
"I'm not going to 'quit that'. You feel like you have changed... Like you have suddenly grown up. In the range of time of some hours. Not even twenty-four hours."  
Dave just sighed. Even if he had rested physically, that had not even started healing his mental exhaustion that was now making him feel tired again. And now this. He felt like saving time to Death and killing John himself, just for the sake of silence. The spinning continued.  
"Dave, I'm..." John swallowed with a little too much trouble, his breath a little too uneasy. "I... I think the sandwich I had for lunch had expired. I feel like shit." He jumped off the kitchen counter "Where did you keep glasses? I..."  
"You're going pale, man. How strange that the sandwich is affecting you now." Dave slid off too and opened one of the top kitchen cabinets, pulling out a small glass decorated with hearts and smiley faces, probably from an old chocolate spread glass he kept from when he was a kid. He filled it up with water and handed it to John. "Must be the karma coming back to you for that prank earlier."  
"Don't you dare. I think I'm going to throw up." He washed down the whole glass in one gulp. He held onto the edge of the kitchen counter, his knees starting to shake noticeably. He placed the glass on the counter as carefully as his unresponsive body could, "Dave, I..."  
"I'll get hold of a bucket. Don't make a mess of everything just yet, you moron."  
Dave sprinted to one of the bottom drawers and pulled it out, taking out a large, grey bucket, and handed it to John just in time to splash its inside with stomach acid and chunks of half-digested food. John coughed violently to the point of being unable to breathe, and his windpipe was open again in time to repeat the previous process. His face was drained of blood, ghost-white almost. When he looked up from the bitter-smelling container, Dave took the chance to pull off his friend's glasses and aid him to the couch. He himself was also feeling unwell, a crescent headache coming along with drowsiness, but he still pushed aside his own dizziness to have John in some kind of safe place. Even if his house wasn't the most safe place there was. He ignored the glass shards that pushed into the soles of his feet and the piercing pain. His mind was in a thick mist; the dizziness was becoming more than a bothering background to become the main character of the tragedy in his mind. Even with the short distance from the kitchen to the couch, he was short of breath when he finally dropped his shivering friend. He hadn't been short of breath for ages.  
Dave ruffled John's hair softly as he poured more contents from his weak stomach and then cough on his own bile. Dave refilled John's smiley glass of water and handed it over to him, to which he muttered a weak "thanks". Dave could almost feel John's pain as the acid burned his throat and his muscles wouldn't stop shaking involuntarily. He was a mess. Both of them were a humongous, shaking mess. The blond collapsed on the couch, his hand holding his spinning head. He swore he could almost hear it rattle. He still couldn't even breathe properly; he tried coughing to force air in and out of his lungs, but it didn't have any positive result: rather, it made him even more light-headed. Like a balloon. A stupid, blond-haired balloon about to explode by the pressure exerted from the air inside. He wished he could float away. He closed his eyes, his head still relying on his hand to stay in position, his neck giving up completely on this bullshit. Sound was beginning to drain away. He had to keep his mouth shut, or the waves of nausea coming to him could betray him. Nausea. What a weird word. Was it even real? Nausea. Naaaausssea. Naushea. What the fuck. Sploosh. More Egbert throwing up whatever was still inside him. Maybe he had thrown up his lungs. Was that even possible? What has going on? Was even the couch still there? He didn't feel it. His hand traced what felt like soft fabric. Almost sure it was still there. Almost. Who did even make up the word couch? He felt tired. John probably was also tired too. He opened his eyes a fraction to check: he was completely knocked out, the bucket loosely held by his inert hands. If he wasn't careful, he was going to drop that fucking bucket and make a mess of the floor. Imagine cleaning that. Imagine. Wasn't that a song by some bug or group of 'em? Whatever. Who cares? No-one. Point proven. Things were getting too confusing to even think straight and remember something. He didn't even notice how his eyes closed and how he was washed away into a sea of unconsciousness. He fell onto John, John dropped the bucket, and the bucket spilled onto the floor.  
Shit. Bro would get so mad when he saw that.

。・°°・・°°・。

"Fucking Christ Dave, the dark circles under your eyes keep scaring the shit out of me."  
Dave cracked his eyes open, only to be met with a blinding light over him. He winced and looked away, covering his eyes with his forearm. Something was on the way, though. Felt like one of those plastic things placed on your mouth to help you breathe or to sedate patients in hospitals.  
Hospital?  
Oh.  
Dave emitted a low grumble from his vocal chords, making them vibrate harshly. "Would you turn off the lights, you dumbass? My eyes hurt. Where are my sunglasses?"  
"Good morning to you too, sleeping beauty." His older brother was right next to him, holding onto the metal bar that stopped patients from rolling off and face planting.  
"Fuck you." Dave turned around in the hospital bed to face the opposite wall, although the ridiculous amount of equipment on him made that task absurdly complicated.  
"There's a doc here who wants to ask you a couple of questions."  
"Oh, can't I first put on some according garments for the occasion?"  
"Shut your mouth now and just let the damned doctor do his job."  
"Fine, then."  
Without any further exchange of words, his brother left. Dave sighed as sweet silence finally established.  
"David Strider?"  
[Oh hell no.]  
"Hello David. Mind if I tell you your situation?"  
[I do mind, in fact.]  
Dave didn't even bother turning around, and maintained the same position. The doctor started babbling. "We found you and your friend in the apartment completely unconscious, with signs that your friend had been vomiting."  
[Thank you, Captain Obvious!]  
"Did you feel nauseous too, David? Did you by any chance feel short of breath in any moment?"  
"Yeah. So what?"  
"Could you, by any chance, felt really weak before falling asleep?"  
"Probably. What's the deal?"  
"We have found alarmingly large amounts of carboxyhemoglobin compared to normal haemoglobin levels. You have suffered from carbon monoxide poisoning."  
Oh. The silent killer.  
"You may know what carbon monoxide is. It differs from carbon dioxide, the usual waste product from cell respiration, on the obvious difference in number of oxygens in its structure. But not only that: when it bonds with haemoglobin, the protein red blood cells are mainly made of, it will stay bonded with said molecule to form carboxyhemoglobin, thus not allowing that molecule to carry oxygen again. This means red blood cells, which are mainly made of haemoglobin, won't be able to carry oxygen with them any more. Understand?"  
"Yes, doc." Why had this turned suddenly into a chemistry class?  
"Haemoglobin is more likely to bond with carbon monoxide than it is with oxygen. If blood isn't able to carry oxygen to perform cell respiration, the body will be in big trouble. If you put it in perspective, it's like drowning, regarding the lack of oxygen cells will have."  
"Uh-huh." Just shut up.  
"We are going to tell your brother now that he should check all appliances that run on fuel in your house, just to prevent further problems."  
"What about John?"  
The sudden question caught the doctor off guard, and Dave heard how his clothes moved as he looked downwards and tried to find the correct words to say.  
"John? Well... Different people have different susceptibilities towards how much carbon monoxide they can tolerate-"  
"He's dead, isn't he?" His words came out of his lips like a venomous snake's bite: sharp and unexpected. He didn't even mean to speak that way; it just came naturally.  
"...he didn't make it. He's a short walk from here, if you want to see him."  
"I'll go later."  
"I'm sorry-"  
"I'm used to it."  
The doctor closed his mouth abruptly, and promptly scurried out of the room, leaving Dave alone with the relentless bleeping of machines and the rhythmical ticking of a wall clock, making the constant reminder of the presence of time. They made good company. At least they didn't say bullshit all the time. He just stared at the wall: a broken white with out of place grey tinges made by the movement of people and furniture. The wall had no texture: it just sat there, blank. Nothing to make it bearable to look at. Empty. Not even a small window. The floor wasn't fun to look at either: it was made of some kind of panelled grey plastic, and probably humidity had made small bumps that surfaced.  
The room just felt empty. A void. He closed his eyes. He'd rather see the darkness of his eyelids than the light of the world. At least it was calmer. Serene.  
What had John been thinking about just before dying? That had always been a question that had been roaming in Dave's mind after fifteen or sixteen failed attempts at saving his friend's life. Sometimes he was fully conscious when his life was grotesquely taken away from him, other times he was unconscious, like last time in the train. But he never knew what went on in his mind. Was he scared when things started to go wrong? He was definitely terrified when the train was about to crash against them yesterday, considering his grip on his t-shirt. Maybe he thought about his last fifteen years? About his childhood memories? His father? Dave? Maybe he prayed. Or maybe his mind just went blank.  
He wondered how he would react when his own death came. He always seemed to stay alive, despite whatever had happened before. His injuries disappeared when he went back in time, after all, so in that sense he was immortal. What a waste of a broken life.  
Dave decided he should go and see John before he was taken away. Hopefully the docs had waited until he had seen him before they buried him.  
He stepped on the ground, carelessly taking of all the plastic equipment attached to him, snapping the rubber band holding the mask against his mouth. Still no sign of his sunglasses. He couldn't care less about them anyway. He walked slowly, as his muscles still ached and could almost feel them snap every time they moved, tiny fibres tearing like the rubber band he broke before. He was aching, but still he forced himself to move one step at a time. He was no longer wearing his own clothes, but a flimsy fabric that felt like it would dissolve the moment someone accidentally poured water on it. Even a small gust of wind would probably allow everyone to see his bare chest. He was almost naked, excluding underwear. Someone had had the pleasure to see his skin without his consent. He knew that, whoever they had been, they had enjoyed it for sure. His bare feet moved slowly through the corridor, the walls as bare as he was under the poor quality piece of paper he was wearing. The walls offered nothing to look at, just like the wall in his hospital room. The place felt more of a mental hospital other than anything else. Maybe the doctors suspected the CO poisoning was a form of suicide attempt?  
He arrived at the main admin desk of the floor holding onto his arms, shivering by the cold air filled with an antiseptic odour. The young lady sitting behind the desk looked up from the scribbled papers before her, only to raise an eyebrow at the sickly fellow in front of her.  
"Whaddya want, bud?" She placed a loose curl of hair behind her ear.  
"I'm looking for Egbert's room. The dead kid with carbon monoxide poisoning."  
"Shouldn't you be restin'? You look like you've seen a ghost."  
"I'm a ghost already. Tell me where he is."  
"OK, OK, bud, no need to get violent. Dead kids go to the end of the corridor until their families say we can take them away. Hurry up before it's too late." She pointed to the opposite end of the corridor. It felt even gloomier than the corridor he had come from before.  
Dave nodded as a way of thanking her, and dragged himself to his destination. In this corridor, the walls were greyer and even more unkempt than the other ones, but at least it wasn't all plaster and paint. The doors had little frames in which small papers were slid in. These papers had terribly handwritten surnames followed by names, probably written by hand because of how often they were changed. All doors were closed here, but they couldn't block the sobbing and wailing of families as they saw their loved ones cold and motionless. Dave looked around, searching for Egbert, his feet still stinging because of half-healed cuts. They refused to move properly and caused him to have to rest from time to time against the wall. He paused right next to a door, short of breath, and managed to eavesdrop what sounded like prayers for someone's soul. The voice sounded like one belonging to an old woman, probably sixty years old. She broke into tears as she repeated some name. "Jakey... Jake... My little Jake... My beloved Jake... It wasn't your time yet... There was still so much yet to come for you..." Her words became impossible to understand. She was probably crying her heart out. Better leave some space for the old lady and what he guessed was her grandson. Dave silently hoped she was alright eventually.  
He finally found John's room. He had come all the way to there, and now he wasn't even sure if he wanted to see his best friend like that. He was dead for sure, yet it still felt unreal. He had failed again. He thought about turning around and abandoning the timeline just like it was. His fingertips traced the messy line creating his friend's name. Egbert, John. It looked like Johm was written instead of John. What a bunch of useless people. His fingers ended up brushing the brass doorknob, and he conducted all of his strength to making it turn and opening the door.  
Saying it was dead silent would've been so perfect if it hadn't been so disrespectful. There wasn't anyone but John there. It looked like his father had been there, but he had gone long ago. There were some discrete white flowers next to his bed, perfuming the room with a mild sweet smell. Dave sat next to John's bed and just looked at him. His cheeks were still slightly peach-coloured and his eyes were closed, his eyelashes resting on his skin. His hair had been tampered with, for it had an unnatural shape considering he was lying in bed. It had probably been a work of Dad Egbert, trying his best to make his only son's appearance as similar as he could to when he was alive. He looked artificial. Almost like a puppet.  
Dave wanted to scream. He wanted to destroy that puppet laying on that bed. That wasn't his friend, it couldn't be. It couldn't be possible that the body in front of him was the same body of the person who had pranked him and laughed that same day. He was sure that if he peeled through that skin, he would find soft stuffing. Not blood, fat, or muscle, but stuffing. His hand gripped tight on the hospital bed, channelling his fury to an inanimate object. He could've held the puppet's wrist, but it seemed far too fragile. He was shaking. His knuckles went white and his fingertips red. He felt his eyes stinging. More force into the metal. His jaw shook, and his breath started to get stuck in his throat. He coughed and tried holding his breath to control himself. He covered his face with his hands, his nails clawing into his face until blood trickled down.  
Why, of all times and deaths, was he crying now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please bear in mind I have exams coming up  
> AND I'M SORRY IT'S BEEN A MONTH SINCE I LAST UPDATED  
> *EXAMS.*  
> Stay tuned for more chapters to come!<3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M REALLY SORRY IT'S BEEN AGES SINCE I LAST UPDATED  
> So here, have a really long chapter to celebrate!  
> Ahhh this one is quite full of music references ahloo  
> IMPORTANT!! This chapter carries a self harm trigger warning! Please bear that in mind!!

The fabric inside the shoes rubbed against the half healed cuts on his feet, opening again the wounds. This time he wasn't healed from the slits made on the last timeline. Seemed like Clockwork Hell had well-established priorities when it came to Dave; wounds would tattoo his body permanently and the pain felt by John before dying was worsened every time he entered his personal purgatory, and the stupid outfit always came back. No exceptions. He wished he could carry objects to Clockwork Hell. This way, he would be able to burn the goddamned cape with some matches.

He just sat on the chrome floor, legs against his chest. He stared at nothing, his vision just left to wander to the inside of his mind. He felt breathless, and his throat was burning as if boiling bile was slowly trickling through. The usual aftermath, nothing new. His stomach churned and spasmed from time to time, nausea crawling inside him. The symptoms were only starting to show. This time, not even a minute had passed before a crescent discomfort had made its way in. The temperature was rising, too, every time he returned there. In some way, you could say that Clockwork Hell was undergoing 'character development'. Dave closed his eyes and rested his head against his knees, trying to take deep breaths. Ill-tasting saliva flooded his mouth. He tried swallowing it, but it was too late; bitter-tasting fluids rushed up his throat, and they were projected out of his mouth before he could even prepare himself. He spluttered, coughing violently, his trachea contracting and effectively suffocating him. He tried looking away from his knees in an effort to not mess up his absurd cosplay.

His coughing and wheezing echoed over and over again, the already insane ticking symphony made even worse. Gears moved on, ignoring the small human figure struggling to fill his lungs with oxygen. Even if they had probably been existing for longer than Dave, they still showed no sign of such thing. They just continued moving along with each other, their harmony colliding with the young man's chaos. They were flawless, graceful, precise, every piece in its exact, perfect place, the whole mechanism just moving ceaselessly. The complete opposite of Dave. The whole Clockwork Hell place felt like it had been created for the sole purpose of destroying his soul. If only he knew who ran the whole thing.

He lay down on his side, shaking. He didn't have the strength to put up any resistance to the pain. He just let it come and go as it pleased. He would occasionally cough up to the floor and then focus on keeping his breath steady for more than ten seconds. The clanking sounds became a doomed background melody that reminded Dave that he was wasting his time just trying to recover. He pulled off his cape and left it next to him with limp hands, just to see if that helped his airways open up. Breathe in, breathe out. Air drifting in, air rushing out. He tried pulling off his over shirt too, rolling off the fabric and allowing the air to lick his arm skin with utmost care. He had become extremely pale, he noticed. His hands had semitransparent skin, his blue veins palpitating with a struggle. He brushed his thumb against his protruding hand veins, and pressed one of them to block the blood flow. He felt his hand go slightly numb. He released his pressure and let the thick blood fill his hand again. He pinched the veins on his wrists over and over again, not paying attention to how the skin, now oversensitive, became red because of the mistreatment.

He wondered if he could open the vein on his wrist just by pinching it.

His face showed almost no change in expression, but his mind snapped back into reality with the thought that had made his way into his head. He wasn't scared of intense bleeding; he had seen John die of blood loss at least three times. It was the idea of hurting and possibly killing himself that way that had caused him to become aware of what he was doing. Ending his life meant no more time travelling, no more Clockwork Hell, no more reliving the same damned Friday over and over and over again. Yet it also meant not being able to see John again, ever. It would mean accepting his death once and for all, and something inside him refused, still, to do so. He didn't know what there was after death, so he couldn't be sure of he would see him after he closed his eyes for the last time.

He had never thought about suicide, but there was something about the idea that was quite inciting.

His fingers had frozen against his scarlet skin, and he slowly traced every line of his wrist. The bones that connected to the phalanxes, the wrinkles under the palm of his hand, the blue, the free-hand drawn dark blue lines. Even those were better connected than the ideas inside him. He blinked, and pushed himself up. The pain had subsided a little now that he had been distracted with his skin. Somehow, the small act of pinching himself had helped him cope with the clawing sensation in his throat. He knew he shouldn't use that little trick too often, but what further harm could it do? He cleaned the side of his mouth and wiped it against his t-shirt. He could breathe again.

'It will come back again if you don't act fast enough.'  
'Move.'  
'Do something.'  
Tick.  
Tock.  
Tick.  
Tock.  
'Why don't you do anything?'  
'Decide.'  
'At least speak.'  
'Make up your mind.'  
"Who is talking?"  
Silence.  
'You are useless.'  
'You fail even at the simplest of tasks.'  
'You can't even breathe.'  
Tick.  
Tock.  
'Do it.'  
'You know what that means.'  
'Do it.'  
'What are you waiting for?'  
'Listen to me.'  
'Listen to me.'  
Tick.  
Tock.

They were everywhere, but he couldn't see them. They were all speaking at the same time, louder with every syllable they pronounced.

But who were 'they' exactly?

'Do it.'  
'You will end up doing it anyway.'  
'Useless.'  
'Waste of space.'  
'Waste of time.'  
Tick.  
Tock.  
'What a shame that you are here.'

He tried covering his ears to discover that they were all speaking inside him. Loud and clear.

'Dave.'  
'This isn't any purgatory of you.'  
Tick.  
'You have been condemned to Hell.'  
Tock.  
'For the rest of eternity.'

He curled into a ball, trying to shield himself of the omnipresent voices. Each one of them had the same exactitude tone, yet they all spoke at different times. He couldn't recognise who the voice was from, though it sounded vaguely familiar. He didn't really want to know. His hands clasped around his ears, almost tearing them off his head. His hands dug into his scalp, harder and harder. He winced in pain. No other sound came from his throat, still badly burnt by the stomach acid he had thrown up earlier.

What if this was how it would be from now on?

He choked and tried to speak. His voice came out in a faint, almost broken whisper.

"I... I want to restart."

Silence. Everything became silent at the same time. The moment all gears started moving backwards, he heard a small voice on the back if his mind.

'Why do you even try?'

 

。・°°・・°°・。

 

Familiarity welcomed him. He was back in his room, just like every Friday morning, with enough time to go to school. His skin felt cold, almost on a freezing temperature. His feet tried to drag him somewhere, and he submitted to almost mechanical movement. He didn't pay attention to himself. He didn't even notice when he changed himself or his body moved itself out of his house. He didn't feel the weight of his school bag on his shoulder, nor didn’t he hear the screams and laughs of his classmates as he walked past them. He looked at himself as if his mind was outside his body, alienated. He saw himself move in a limping manner almost, probably because of the wounds on his feet. He didn't feel the pain at all. He just watched.

He watched as John ran and walked alongside him. He listened every word John said, trying his best to make his body look as if he was interested. Even that had become more of a chore rather than something that he did automatically. People looked at him with curious looks. He was probably attracting a lot of attention with his attitude and lack of strength. Luckily, the redness on his wrist had almost faded, but his flesh still felt like it could be destroyed by any accidental contact. Maybe he should start wearing long sleeves from now on, just to divert looks from other schoolmates.

"Are you listening?"

"Huh?"

"You just walked right past your classroom." John looked at him, raising an eyebrow.

"Did I?" His words were emotionless. He didn't really know how to speak with any kind of vibe.

"Yes you did."

"I'm not at my finest mood today." He kept walking, searching for any exit. Anything but class would be great at that moment. John followed closely.

"Dave! Where are you going?!"

"Let's skip class." Nice idea. Wherever it had come from, it was a great idea.

"Right now?" The incredulous tone on his voice was more than audible in the whisper John produced as he came closer to Dave and followed him.

"Yeah. I can't be bothered. I need air."

"I... I can't skip class!"

"Fine. Then I'm going alone."

His pace quickened, and he watched from outside as John swallowed hard and matched his pace, visibly more nervous than he was.

"...let's get out of here quickly, then."

He was just a kid without any personality. Or maybe he was just a good friend. God knew.

Dave kept a poker face as he walked through the hallway, John having a little more trouble remaining calm. They both walked out of the building, Dave leading both his body and his friend to a secret 'back door' exit located in the school's dump. The smell was thick and overwhelming, as rotting food scraps left in the sunlight decomposed quickly. He was careful not to let his feet step on mouldy pieces of fruit, and so did John. The dumpsters were huge, a normal thing considering they were intended to be used for a whole school full of careless kids who would throw all of their waste to the floor or whatever was closer to them. Luckily they had been emptied earlier in the morning, their big plastic mouths open and ready to be filled throughout the day. Dave pushed them aside and snaked through the maze the dumpsters created. When he got to the fence that marked the frontier between the educational inferno and liberty, he climbed up with minor agility, considering his weak body with almost no muscle left. He felt John's gaze piercing his neck, and he guessed he was ready to hold him if he fell. He saw himself propel the bag of flesh and bones he was becoming up the metallic intricacy, his fingers holding as firmly as possible, and then jump over to the other side using his knee joints to cushion the fall. He turned around to watch John following his steps, climbing up the rail with more ease than his friend. Although it looked at one moment as if he was going to fall on his back and break his neck, he managed to successfully jump on the concrete with nothing more than a scratch on his t-shirt that he earned while pushing himself over the metallic ends of the fence. Once safe and sound, he looked at Dave and flashed and easy smile.

Dave felt something like a heartbeat inside him, but too quick and sudden for it to be real. He discarded the thought shortly after.

He saw himself slide his hands inside the pockets at the sides of his jeans and create something that resembled a smile on his lips to congratulate John for managing to land and not break anything in the process. They looked at each other for a brief second, and somehow they both got the message. No words were exchanged, and still they understood what they had to do next.

Run the fuck out of there.

No particular direction was chosen; just away from there. Dave just let his feet take over, and he found himself running at top speed just after John. Their trainers slapped the floor mercilessly, the concrete groaning loudly as they took off. This almost felt like parkour; they jumped over anything and everything, turning abruptly around corners and using every possible piece of urban distinction to aid themselves out of there. They didn't have to run away from anything really, but the adrenaline rush made the whole thing a little more exciting. Dave came back to himself. He felt the air like feathers colliding all at the same against his face. He saw the surface of earth disappearing behind his feet at unimaginable speeds. He never knew he could move this fast. His blood boiled in excitement, his heart threatened to explode inside his ears and his chest. Although his throat was sore, both from the sharp intakes of breath and from the past experience he didn't want to remember, he didn't mind. He was running away, and nothing else mattered. He saw John jumping over concrete blocks with far more confidence than Dave, almost tripping once or twice, but still able to maintain a constant speed way over how quick Dave managed to move. He swore he could see the wind guiding and aiding him on his run. There were times he would almost fly, his feet losing contact with the ground completely. He laughed, or at least he managed to chuckle between each breath. He wasn't even panting. How he managed to not run out of breath was a complete mystery to Dave.

The ground became steeper as they ran up an elevation. Both of them were almost flying, the soles of their trainers making barely any contact with the world. They were becoming independent beings, almost ready to fly out. Buildings and buildings were left behind, cynical individuals peeking out of their windows and grunting when they heard fast-paced galloping sounds. Both boys couldn't care less of what was going around them; they would only pay attention to what was directly in front of them, slaloming between lampposts and passersby. Dave felt free. Freedom. He felt he could detach himself from the pull of gravity whenever he desired to.

They started climbing metallic stairs located at the side of a large brick and stone building, large windows littered randomly on the walls, their feet hitting hard against the worn iron, making the whole structure shake at times. The stairs felt flimsy and more of what would've been something temporary that turned out to be permanent. Their use now would've probably been restricted to being an emergency staircase. Their feet struck the metal violently, audible pangs and clangs making the air vibrate. Along the foul sounds their running made, one could almost make out the sound of John's breathless laugh and Dave's cursing as his hair kept being messed up.

They both reached the rooftop shortly after, slowing down and coming to a halt, allowing themselves to breathe and calm down. Dave's mouth was dry and he felt his forehead burning, sweat trickling down his face. He took off his sunglasses and wiped the sweat off with the back of his hand. He squinted because of the intrusive light, but he still was able to make out the silhouettes of most of what was around him: a bare, virginal floor, a couple of leftover construction debris on the far left, and fenceless edges. It wasn't until he started to calm down that he felt the adrenaline rush subside to give in to shaking legs that wouldn't hold themselves, let alone his entire weight. It's funny how a combination of molecules spat out by glands placed on your kidneys could make you feel more alive than ever before.

His friend was already walking around, getting closer to the edge and probably checking how high up they were. He seemed smart enough to not get any closer, and he turned around on his heel to face Dave.

"Come here! We somehow managed to run up the building with the best panoramic view. You can see everything around!"

"We have a privileged panorama?" He limped behind, moving himself to be just alongside John.

"Check it out for yourself, bro." He stretched out his arm to allow Dave to hold on to something as he scurried next to him, all his effort concentrated on not falling over. His grip was firm around John's arm, the marble tint of his flesh very different from the healthy look of John's more caramel coloured skin. He didn't seem to mind how he held on to him, and that was nice. Dave would never admit he felt safer when he held on to John. Feeling his fingertips touch his friend's arm meant he was still there, beside him, warm and alive.

The town was, literally, buzzing with activity. The sun had risen completely, the ochre and scarlet having faded away to be replaced with a soothing blue, the distant star gently warming up anything it shone on. Windows reflected the sunlight, and window-cleaners were still committed to their jobs and were swiping off leftover soap and water with quick movements. Cars came and went, and from the height they were at, they looked more like toy cars than real petrol-powered machinery. Blocks and blocks of buildings stood next to each other, each one of them a little distinct to its neighbours. Here and there people would walk around, young businessmen running quickly to their offices while hollering down the phone; old people would take their time crossing the road, to the dismay of the drivers waiting; tired mothers would walk around with their hyperactive children, who would scream and cry every so often: and occasionally, a young couple would be walking out of a café after having breakfast together while a stressed university kid ran out of the same café while almost shoving down their throat a takeaway coffee. There was constant movement, and a placid breeze would play with the loose strands of hair from both of the boys.

The whole town felt alive, and they felt small.

John seemed to search for words for longer than intended, until he finally managed to speak up. "...It's funny how everyone just gets on with their own lives ignoring what is going on in the mind of who is right beside you."

"Like?"

"I mean... Like the person who is sitting right beside you on the bus could be going to a really important and life-changing event, but you just... Remain completely oblivious to it. You don't know their story, what has been going in with their lives or what will remain of them in the future. And... We people are somehow okay with that. We don't mind at all." He pushed up the rim of his glasses. "We move on. We have our own stuff to think about. We could be standing right beside a potential best friend, but we never know. We don't think much about others."

"People are shallow, John. They can't see beyond their own noses." He leaned further on to John. "The human race is selfish. Obsessed with themselves, their own benefit and profit. Nothing else matters."

"Well... I didn't mean it that way, but I guess you've got a point. We just think about ourselves. But... I still want to know more about someone else's story." His gaze fixed on a mother who managed to save their child from getting run over by a monstrously large truck, "What do people think about every day?"

"I can tell you I only think about crashing into bed every second of the school day."

"I thought your mind was deeper, and went further than just thinking about sleep."

"It is deeper. But you wouldn't want to know what is going on inside me."

"It can't be that bad."

"You would be surprised."

"Come on, Dave. I thought you were easygoing." His face turned slightly, enough to be able to peek at the permanent stare his friend kept. Accepting he wasn't going to get an answer, he glanced back into the city effervescence. As time went on, more and more people flooded the streets, idle morning chatter hand in hand with the huffing of bus motors. Stores were starting to open too, the metal blinds protecting the glass display windows rolling upwards and allowing pedestrians to peer at the goods establishments were selling. Near them, someone could be heard singing in the shower some lyrics about some stairway to heaven. Everyone seemed too immersed in their diligences to avert how two kids were watching them instead of being at school.

"I know an awesome record store we could go to, if you want. Or instead, we can keep stalking people. Until they call the police."

The sudden string of syllables escaping his friend's lips made John jump. "Eh... Is it far from here?"

"Couple of blocks." Dave's fingers slid off John's arm, and John felt almost warmer without his hand on him. Since when was Dave's temperature so low? He was definitely looking worse than usual, but he didn't dare ask what the deal was.

"Okay. I'll follow your lead, then."

As they trooped down the stairs, Dave felt his heart wither and collapse into himself. The top of a building was the perfect place for John to live his final moments. Yet, he was still alive. Death definitely was preparing itself for something less predictable. And he was terrified. Because he couldn't prepare himself in any way possible from now on.

He supposed all he could do was just wait and be cautious.

 

。・°°・・°°・。

 

They somehow ended up silently agreeing to pretend being ninjas as they walked around town. Being caught by some pesky adult would mean instant trouble, so they had to be cautious when walking around in specially crowded areas or near office blocks. And being sent back to the school building escorted by a police officer would be quite cool, but not the best way to end the day. They made sure they didn't gather much attention, and although both of them were in their teens, Dave looked suspicious when walking and John had slightly childish looks still. Some people did look at them with raised eyebrows and muttered in an undertone, but they had their own lives to get on with and no time to pay attention to kids who had probably bunked off school. The street opened up to a fairly small plaza, and located on one of its sides, hidden away from first glances, was the record store Dave had quoted earlier. Its showcase was brimmed with record covers and rare music merchandise. Even famous CDs were hanging from the ceiling with transparent threads, the backside of them glinting as they moved and reflected light. If one looked closely, they could recognise some legendary covers, like those belonging to The Velvet Underground, Pink Floyd, The Beatles, David Bowie, The Rolling Stones, The Clash, and more recent vinyls like those from Arctic Monkeys or even Daft Punk. T-shirts and other goodies from famous bands were pinned against the sides, logos from bands such as Nirvana or Avenged Sevenfold displayed with pride. Musical culture oozed out, inciting from the common passer-by to the audiophile to open the laminated steel door and walk in.

“Holy shit.”

“I knew you would react this way. It’s bigger inside.”

“There`s even more?”

“Oh, if there’s more. You could spend the rest of your life here and still not be able to go through their entire music collection.”

He heard a soft gasp beside him, followed by quick steps and the squeaking of the door as it opened.

The walls were covered with records and records and records. There were large boxes containing even more records kept in plastic slips, and normal CDs were stocked upon shelves. Up on the ceiling, flags, banners and posters from old concert festivals were pinned, even signed pieces of paper and self-made banners put up with pride. The cashier was located at one solitary corner, surrounded by framed magazine articles that either mentioned the record shop or informed about past iconic festivals, a plump young woman with striking red hair reading page after page of some magazine. The store stretched more far than wide, access to some of its more hidden areas far more difficult. All records were alphabetically catalogued by band name, more prolific bands using up whole crates, while more rare or obscure bands required flicking through thousands of albums to find even one CD. The shop had got into the habit of highlighting a particular band or genre every month, and placing similar albums next to the recommendations to help customers broaden their music taste. The place felt somewhat crowded at times, but mostly it felt welcoming. The dim lighting gave more of a relaxing vibe rather than overwhelming. As background music, Morrisey’s voice hummed out of the store’s speakers, impregnating every soul present. 

Dave’s fingers caressed the top of the records as he walked past them, one of the crates catching his attention. He paused, and started flicking through cardboard covers as John watched beside him. Both of their eyes moved swiftly, following the images that disappeared as Dave’s fingertips carefully fondled with the unique gems found only there. Without noticing, his lips imitated the sound the albums made as they were pushed against each other. Thwup. Thwup. Thwup. He came along the vinyl album that was playing, and picked it out. He held it with care, his thumb stroking the shining yet weathered cover, its corners worn off and smooth. He knew that album quite well, yet he had never got the chance to get his hands on a real copy. 

“You interested in The Smiths, kid?” Dave turned his head to listen to the rounded woman with the magazine from earlier, now chewing a piece of gum. “That album you’re holding right there is a masterpiece, dating back to 1986. Be careful not to drop it.” Her fingers let the magazine page they were holding flop gracefully. Dave nodded to let her know he had listened. He knew all too well how grand of a record it was.

The Queen Is Dead.

“That is one interesting name for an album.”

*Are you saying it’s not great?” Dave’s voice became stern, accomplishing his goal of making John uneasy.

*Of course not…! I just… You like this band?”

“Don’t you?”

“I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never actually listened to any of their songs.”

“You are a disgrace for this planet. And a liar. They are playing this record right now.”

“…Oh.”

“Yeah.” He checked the price tag. 30$. 

Not that bloody bad.

“Are you buying it?”

“I’d be mad if I didn’t. This is a golden opportunity right here.” He shook the whole thing just to check if there were any imperfections, and he heard what sounded like a piece of paper and something else inside. “Hm?”

“There is paper inside that cardboard slip, right?”

“We’ll check what it is outside. Did you find anything? Some stupid film of yours’ soundtrack?”

John groaned. “It’s funny the first two times, but you’ve been making fun of my film taste for years.”

“I wonder why. Oh yeah, because it’s still as fucking despicable as ever.” Dave roamed back to the entrance of the store while pulling out his wallet, followed by a whining John. Stupid kid. The attendant gave them a couple of looks while accepting Dave’s payment, but didn’t dare comment, just wish them a nice rest of the day as she slipped the record into a plain plastic bag. Dave thanked her, and proceeded to the exit.

The door almost threw them out of the shop, the weight and whatever mechanism it relied on to open and close forcing them to make their way or risking their butts being pushed. There were a couple of worn, wood and metal benches on the sunlight, to where they made their way to. The sun shone full force on the stone pavement, the tiny crystals that had made their way into the stone scintillating. Both boys sat on one of the benches, Dave pulling out the record and looking at it from all angles. Curiosity was starting to creep into him. The box, upon further inspection, presented little bumps, like soft things had been pressed against it, yet they hadn’t been completely deformed. It showed obvious signs of usage, of having been lent and returned multiple times, thin lines scarring the cover image. He opened the slip and turn the album around, allowing anything inside the album to fall out on the plastic bag it had come out of the shop in.

Small, dried flowers, a closed letter and the vinyl record came out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dunnn what will the letter contain?
> 
> Can you believe I actually had to stop myself from writing any more?  
> Super long chapter to make up for the month without any writing :_) I'm finally on vacation, at the beach, and ready to write a lot! I passed all my exams with pretty good grades, I'm so happy!  
> The Smiths fans will be quite happy with this chapter and probably with the one following! Also, if you can guess what the other song referenced in this chapter is, I'll give you something ;-)  
> I'll update really soon with some luck! I'm on a writing spree :_)  
> Thanks for reading, stay tuned for more chapters and message me at colourfuleden.tumblr.com for any feedback and quesions!


	5. Chapter 5

"...that's way too cheesy. If being cheesy had a limit, then this goes way over that limit."

Dried flowers. A closed letter. If this was a fluff fanfiction, the main character would probably feel embarrassed. But this wasn't fanfiction. And even if it was, the main character wasn't feeling any butterflies in their stomach or was blushing at the encounter. The situation felt ridiculous. Neither of them laughed, though. They just remained in silence, staring at the delicate dry petals on the plastic. The paper envelope was almost intact, except for some residue the petals had left as they had dried and some yellowing on the corners. The letter had been inside the record box for a long time, it seemed, but it hadn't been opened. The glue holding the envelope closed was untouched, no signs of any tampering obvious to the human eye. The letter on the front had a name handwritten in what was guessable as a feminine handwriting. Sweetie. 

Dave would've been lying to himself if he had said he wasn't dying to know what was written inside. The letter hadn't been read yet, and it was apparently quite old. What harm would it do to read the contents? He slid his fingernail under the envelope's flap, and pulled. The glue provided no resistance, and broke its contact with the paper easily. He kept his movements in an unhurried manner, tension building up gradually. As the flap finally broke loose from the rest of the envelope, a beige paper peeked shyly at both of them. Said paper looked worn, yet sturdy, and its texture resembled the one that recycled paper had. Dave pulled out the paper, leaving the envelope aside.

It was a letter addressed to Sweetie. Clean, elongated handwriting formed sincere words, words that, put together, told the story of the remitted and her most loved one. He read each and every letter as it linked with the next one, savouring every bitter stroke of the pen as she became more desperate. Some words were illegible due to tears that had been shed and had fallen on the ink she had used to write the letter with. 

Sweetie had been her boyfriend. They had been together for years and years, but something happened between them, some mistake from her side. She felt like her soul had been ripped apart. She knew what he thought of her. She knew he hated her. She wanted to make up for it, wanted to talk it over, get back together. She had given him back the album the letter had come in after having it in her possession for months. That record had their song, Some Girls Are Bigger Than Others. Lots of memories were closely tied to that song. 

She hoped he would read the letter. She concluded telling him she would be waiting for him under the cherry trees they had met at the moment they started blooming. The letter had been signed by Liz in December.

The December of three years ago.

Dave could only stare at the date in silence. Sweetie had never opened the letter at all. He had never read Liz's apologies. Liz had probably waited for him day after day. Dave would never know what the outcome of the whole story would be, but he was sure it wouldn't be a happy fairytale-like ending. 

He folded back the paper, following the creases already made by the previous hands that had creased the very same paper. He didn't put it back into the envelope just yet. 

"... I wonder if Liz is okay." John muttered softly, still unable to say anything consistent.

"I'm sure she'll be alright. She just had her hopes completely destroyed by some asshole."

"Her ex probably sold that record without even checking what was inside... He was really pissed of, I guess?"

"More than pissed off. But that's not an excuse to ignore apologies." He pushed the paper back into the envelope, that welcomed back it's companion for so many years. 

"Flowers don't bloom in December, anyhow."

"She had probably given him the letter with time to let him think. To let him organise his ideas and feelings towards her." He blew the petals away, the small things twirling into the sunlight and the falling to the shade. He slid the record back inside the bag and looked at the flower petals as the breeze pushed them around and bullied them. 

"She could've still told him about the letter, or at least hinted it."

"It would've ruined everything. Haven't you ever read dumb love stories?" He stood up at the same time as John did, record held in the bag it had come from.

"Love stories have happy endings. This sounds more like a living nightmare."

"You mistook nightmare with reality."

"You mistook irony with being mean and heartless."

Both of them just let their feet take them wherever they desired, although remaining close to each other. They ended up on the main street, leaving behind shop after shop, stranger after stranger. The sun shone directly over them, the buildings not tall enough to reach out and block the sun rays. Dave knew the whole mood had been ruined, the rush of what had almost felt like happiness brutally stopped in its tracks. What he wasn't sure about was if it had been caused by Sweetie and Liz's story or by his own ultra rational and emotionless thinking. He couldn't help it. He somehow could relate to how Liz felt in that letter. Her hopes had been stomped and trampled on with no care, and when she had tried one last time to fix things, it had gone completely wrong. His breathing became, without his knowledge, slightly irregular.

He had been holding, minutes ago, the only proof he needed to show him what he was doing was pointless. If it was true that hope was the last thing a person loses, he now had nothing.

He didn't hear the people shouting. He didn't see the mob coming. He didn't feel the shoves of people screaming as they ran away from the police. He didn't know about the manifestation that had been taking place that day. He didn't know it had turned into a violent turmoil, and what had started as a pacific gathering at a secluded plaza near the most obscure part of town now had fermented and become an open field riot. 

He didn't lift up his gaze when he saw his friend being held by one of the rioters as a human shield. Civilians were quickly sucked into the chaos, all trying to get away from the streets as quickly as possible. The police resorted into using rubber balls against the most problematic, and one by one they fell to the floor, bright carmine spots appearing on their legs, arms and chests. One of the policemen ran beside Dave, and he managed to catch a glimpse of the eyes behind the heavily-built helmet.

There was bloodlust in them. He didn't even bother hiding it. It was obvious he was enjoying what he was going. His brutal actions were nothing that a game to him. He shot another rubber ball to the upper back of one of the rioters, the howl of utter pain sending chills down Dave's spine and causing a cold laughter from the shooter. He didn't even know the name of who had been shot, but he still felt her pain. Nobody stopped to help her, and she lay on the asphalt unable to even move a millimetre. Someone else, on their evident panic, didn't see her on the floor and tripped on them, but was still able to stand up and run. Dave looked at the helpless, barely moving body, transfixed. 

He felt unable to help her. He knew that, if he got closer to her, he would get shot too and probably end up face to the floor. But the body laying on its side, just jerking slightly as the young woman wept in pain, still stirred something inside him. It woke up a feeling that he thought he had blocked already. 

As the world whirred around him, all he could feel, deep inside him, was sadness. 

It choked him slowly. He felt the familiarity of this feeling as it came back after a long time. He felt those well-known hands wrap around his neck and his heart, and squeeze. He forced himself to breathe and shut down any physical manifestation of the emotion. This wasn't the moment. Not now. 

Control. 

Don't let your mind take over your body. 

Mute your senses.

Protect yourself.

Conceal everything. 

He looked around him. Everything was going too fast, both outside and inside him. His mind raced, thoughts jolting and colliding with one another. People sprinted, rubber balls and clubs imposing their authority. He tried looking for John, but he was nowhere to be seen. He tried calling his name. He screamed his name. He was unheard. He felt suffocation. John was missing, and the police was already using brute force against the innocent and the suspects. The tumult had become a modern war at a small scale. 

A gunshot was heard, and was closely followed by panicked whimpers and shrieks, as if banshees had been awakened. Dave screamed again. And again. He didn't even bother calling John again. 

Another gunshot pierced the air. Pleads of mercy could be heard from every direction. People fell on the floor, knocked out. John. John. Where the fuck are you, John? Dave was drowning, but there was no water. He heard the whizzing of a bullet. And another one. His scream was cut as a bullet penetrated the side of his body. A rubber ball hit his shoulder. Fall, fall fall. 

'It's your time to bite the dust'

'Let people step on you. Who cares about another speck of dust on the ground?'

'Dirt will always return with dirt.'

'Keep screaming; nobody will hear you.'

'One casualty out of a couple hundred? Who cares?'

'Who cares?'

'Who cares?'

'Say, Dave. Who cares?'

'Tell us.'

He tried to block them too, but they became stronger. The voices echoed over and over and over again, rendering them impossible to make them silent. They kept talking, colliding with his thoughts and making his head more of a damned mess. He felt his head throb. His side was soaking with blood, the liquid tinting his T-shirt. His shoulder groaned in pain in the background. Everything required his attention at the same time.

'Nobody cares.'

Nightmare. Nightmare. Nightmare. Nightmare. Nightmare. Nightmare. 

'Nobody cares about you, Dave.'

"STOP IT!!" He screamed as he bent forward to the blood-soaked asphalt, the tiny black cracks unable to conceal the brutality'a residues. He screamed louder, to an ear-piercing howl. His hands bit into his side, trying to stop the flow of blood and covering the gunshot wounds. The plastic bag he was still holding failed to protect the record that was inside. Little could he care about that.

He heard a distant calling of his name. Someone shook him. He couldn't hear who he was. He couldn't stop screaming. There were two warm hands over his own. Two hands on his face, trying to make him look up. His body had solidified. He had become a screaming statue. He distinguished what sounded like crying. Someone held him close. His windpipe closed, causing him to cough uncontrollably. He was held on to tighter. 

Another gunshot. The figure holding him twitched slightly, and he felt something even warmer than its hands on his side. It was thicker than water. He recognised the texture and smell over the gunpowder stink. The figure limped onto him. 

The figure, along with the smell of blood and rubber, smelled of cake icing.

。・°°・・°°・。

Nobody came to check on them when the situation had calmed down. Nobody seemed to notice that two young men were on their knees, one still shaking after having an extreme anxiety attack and the other one dead. The world seemed to consider them outliers. Rubber balls were rolled about by people and wind. Dave was still unable to move, even when the streets were emptied and the town's cleaning service started using pressurised water to clean away whatever was there. Lost shoes without their pairs, scraps of clothing, bullet caskets, and more. All the violence seemed to have vanished into thin air, the aftermath on the floor being the only indication that something had been going on. 

Dave held on to the body. He placed it on his back to carry it, and stood up, his friend's body losing heat already. The dead, limp arms wouldn't cooperate to avoid the whole corpse from falling to the ground; Dave held the body to himself with one arm and flopped the arms over his shoulders with the other. He had to angle towards the ground, as gravity tried to claim the body where it belonged. He tried looking frontwards, avoiding eye contact with the bloody ground. His feet scraped against the asphalt as he started walking mechanically, as far away from there as possible. The bag in which the record was contained hit against his thigh rhythmically with every step he took, the tempo held slow. There was no need to run.

The cleaning crew looked at both the boys as they walked by, but they didn't dare say anything. One of them, holding the water hose, directed the water blasting out of it behind Dave's steps, washing away the path he had just created. Blood still trickled slowly out of the gunshot wound, even if it was already clotting. Moving John to give him a piggyback ride had probably reopened the small hole on his side. Even though his whole body wearily wailed in pain, he moved forward. 

He went back to a familiar place. Before, he had flown up those stairs; now, they shook as much as he did, threatening to collapse. He crouched a little forward to maintain stability, and caught a glimpse of the disastrous state of his trainers and jeans, now drenched in blood. He tightened his jaw, shook the puppet on his back to put it in place, and kept climbing. He left footsteps that were bound to disappear, and finally reached the terrace he had been at hours ago. 

The place itself hadn't changed at all; yet, it felt a whole lot different. The bare grey floor greeted him with a dry welcome, and he answered by staining it with red prints. 

He reached the end of the terrace, and kneeled down to leave John's body on the floor.

He moved himself to the edge of the terrace. Dave looked down.

His foot swung into nothing.

He closed his eyes.

His whole body fell forward.

Those who happened to look up that moment screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fear nothing, my friends, there is going to be a happy ending ; ;  
> I have a bit of a writer's block, so I'm not sure when I'll update next...  
> Anyhow, any questions, concerns, feedback, anything, send a message or ask to my tumblr: colourfuleden.tumblr.com   
> Feel free to message, and sorry if this was a shorter chapter hahaha :_)


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